


Talking of Michelangelo

by bellamysfern (VivereLibri)



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: F/M, One Shot Collection
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-07-25
Updated: 2017-07-25
Packaged: 2018-12-06 22:17:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 876
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11610063
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VivereLibri/pseuds/bellamysfern
Summary: A collection of one-shots and half-thought out ideasBecause I really need to start getting some of these ideas out thereTitle comes from "The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock"





	Talking of Michelangelo

They stand in front of each other, just staring. Clarke drags her eyes down his form, looking for weaknesses. He's doing the same thing, and even though they are not actually touching she feels a whispering touch on her skin, as light as the flutter from a butterfly's wings. It makes her clench her jaw and readjust her stance.

Bellamy keeps his pose, staff held out like a sword in front of him. Clarke's style is different, holding it less like a sword and more like a something she can use both ends with. Like a _staff_. The way it’s meant to be used.

"What are they doing?" She barely registers the impatience hanging around the edge of the room, and Jasper's comment doesn't quite compute in her brain.

"Shhhh!" Monty shushes his friend loudly.

Octavia growls. "Get on with it, Bell."

The corner of Bellamy's lips turns down just a little. He's distracted for only a moment, but it's when Clarke takes the opportunity to leap forward.

It's supposed to be a dance, but right now it's just a fight. Bellamy matches her blow for blow, but it's not graceful or coordinated or beautiful. It's just fighting.

He lands a hit on her hip, and a millisecond later she's striking his shoulder. They break apart, breathing heavily.

"Clarke," she hears her mother warn. Clarke turns away for a moment, closing her eyes and twirling her staff. She needs to get back into the mindset.

When she turns back to Bellamy, he looks a tad impatient. "Focus, Princess,"

Fury translates to a killing calm, and Clarke takes her stance again. This time, Bellamy strikes first. She's mostly on defensive, a little startled when she realizes he had been holding back. That only causes her ire to grow, and she start fighting with a little more force.

"1-0," Bellamy has his staff up to her neck. They spring back at each other.

"1-1," Clarke gasps when she's in position to ram his back, hard. He gets back up.

"1-2," She's positioned to take out his right knee.

"2-2," Bellamy pauses just before he can strike her over her head.

They fly back at each other, still prompted by everything but compatibility. The fight isn't a dance, it's just a fight, and Clarke can't help but feel a twinge of disappointment.

Maybe it shows on her face, because something in the air changes. Bellamy's attacks slow a little, and suddenly she's understanding them. He's still coming at her like a freight train, but now she flits around and can more accurately predict what his moves are.

Something clicks, and then she doesn't have to think anymore.

This is what it's supposed to be. This is what dancing around each other, being connected and compatible, means. That presence of a connection is brilliant in itself, but Clarke never expected the euphoria that would accompany it. A soft happiness warms her chest, along with gentle peace. It's crazy, but somehow she's feels peaceful and happy while sparring. Clarke is so gleeful in fact, that she laughs.

It almost throws Bellamy off, but then he's grinning too. It's just them, sometimes trading playful blows and then a second later moving without any restraint. Their attacks are vicious – they could seriously hurt each other— but it's all part of the dance.

It has to end sometime though, and their conversation, the banter, switches tone. They want to see who can win, if it is even a competition anymore. Clarke thinks she has her winning move the same time as Bellamy, and they both move until they are wrapped up in each other. Bellamy's staff is pushing into her back and pressing them together, and hers is by their sides, poised to hit his neck. He's handling like a staff, and she like a sword.

The air is still. Heavy breathing is the only noise that breaks fragile silence. Bellamy looks at her, eyes wide with shock, an expression she's sure matches her own. The high of their dance starts to fade until Clarke registers that she's pressed chest to chest with Bellamy Blake of all people. She's drift compatible with Bellamy.

Before her doubts take root, Bellamy's eyes flicker shut and his forehead presses into hers. She feels her own eyelids slip closed as the feeling from before comes back, not as powerful, but still settling her mind.

_Peace_ , she thinks, and in that moment, she's sure that's what Bellamy's thinking too.

She's hears their staffs clatter to the floor, but at a distance. She doesn't want to let go of the buzzing energy that surrounds them.

Of course, someone has to go and break it, and of course it ends up being her mother.

"I think we're done for the day," Abby says.

Clarke feels the gush of warm air hit her face as Bellamy sighs deeply. Her eyes flicker open, staring right into his face. He backs off a little, and she takes a miniscule step away.

They both know it. They are drift compatible, to an insane degree. Clarke can't even begin to understand how they are so in tune, as much as other veteran pilots, when they haven't even drifted. There's only one problem.

They hate each other.


End file.
